


scot free

by youcouldmakealife



Series: unsportsmanlike conduct [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During an after the whistle scrum one of his opponents threw a slur at him. It wasn't the first time, and despite the fact that they supposedly had a zero tolerance policy for racial slurs, other officials had ignored it, pretended not to hear it, or, one time, warned the player to watch his mouth or he'd be getting unsportsmanlike next time.</p>
<p>McGregor threw him out of the game</p>
            </blockquote>





	scot free

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings at the end:

There are a lot of refs in the league, and generally Jordan only really remembers them if they’re especially bad at their jobs. Most of them he talks to on the ice, but he wouldn’t recognize them off it, or anything like that. But there are exceptions. The guy who didn’t even call a penalty when Jordan took a slewfoot that wrenched his knee and ended his season? Yeah, that’s Pardy. Retired last year, and Jordan can’t say he’ll miss him. The guy who calls a penalty on Sternberg every time he’s officiating a Red Wings game, even though Sternberg’s generally a clean player? Beauchamp. 

It’s not that Jordan holds a grudge, necessarily — well, maybe he holds a bit of a grudge on Pardy, but when the league decides after the fact that the slewfoot deserves a five game suspension, you probably should have called at least a minor — just that he knows who to be wary of, who his guys need to be wary of.

Jordan knows McGregor too, but that’s a little more favorable. McGregor got his attention years ago, back when Jordan was still on the Golden Seals. Jordan couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three at the time, had a decent reputation but no letter on his jersey, so he didn’t really talk to the officials much. During an after the whistle scrum one of his opponents threw a slur at him. It wasn't the first time, and despite the fact that they supposedly had a zero tolerance policy for racial slurs, other officials had ignored it, pretended not to hear it, or, one time, warned the player to watch his mouth or he'd be getting unsportsmanlike next time. 

McGregor threw him out of the game.

Since then McGregor hasn’t really shaken Jordan’s perception that he’s a good guy. He’s called a few penalties Jordan’s personally disagreed with, but he knows he’s biased in favor of his own team. He doesn’t call many borderline things, and he doesn’t miss many of the blatant calls. It’s refreshing.

Outside the fact that he’s actually good at his job, which is novel enough, he’s one of the refs who interacts with the guys, jokes around with the players if they’re not being assholes. He’s also probably the only ref that Jordan can see being hot outside of that awful polyester zebra gear. Because no one’s hot in that outfit. 

Okay, maybe he’s a little hot in it.

So it fucking sucks that he’s the one Jordan blows up at in the least professional moment in his entire career to date. Probably career period, because he’s never losing his shit like that again. Every time he thinks of it he feels ill, and every time he thinks of the fact he directed it at one of the few good guys he feels worse, so congrats Jordan Davies, you taught yourself a lesson.

*

Jordan’s having a shitty day.

Lindsay was supposed to come up to Detroit for a week, meet him at home when he got back from his road trip, but she’s got the flu. Is throwing her guts up, apparently, which Jordan doesn’t think is actually true, but she sounded downright awful when she called, so he let her have her exaggeration. He feels bad for her, but he guiltily feels even worse for himself, because he hasn’t seen her in months, and that’s fine when it’s his parents or his brother, but with Linds it’s different. Twin separation anxiety or something.

He’s basically in a bad mood from the get-go, since Lindsay woke him up with that bit of news, and it doesn’t help when it turns out that a couple of the Red Wings have come down with the flu as well. Presumably not the same flu, since he doubts it can fly from Wisconsin to Missouri in the space of a night, but it’s a really unfortunate coincidence. They don’t have enough notice to call anyone up. Their farm team’s playing in Newfoundland that night, of all the inconvenient places, so they’re going to be playing with five D. Which means Jordan is probably going clock in around the thirty minute mark. It makes him exhausted just thinking about it.

So of course it gets worse, and to Jordan’s utter lack of surprise, Brandon Simcoe’s the one taking the day from bad to horrible. Simcoe’s an asshole. And not like a regular kind of hockey playing asshole. Jordan’s pretty used to that. He’s the kind of guy who should be getting the same amount of minutes as enforcers with the shit he pulls. He doesn’t, because he’s a top line, big shot player, from Kansas City all the way up to Team Canada, so apparently he can do whatever he wants as long as it isn’t to the top players on the other team. And even then, he gets minors for stuff that would be suspensions for a fourth liner. Player safety’s a joke.

Simcoe doesn’t generally go after Jordan — he’s the epitome of the kind of guy who doesn’t pick on someone his own size, and Jordan is his size, would give as good as he got. Jordan’s a clean player, at least he likes to think so, and his generally low penalty minutes seem to agree, but he’s not going to take anybody’s shit either. But Kansas City and Detroit don’t much like one another. The rivalry started with a playoff series long before any of the current players were on the roster, and it should have fizzled out with the infrequency that they play one another, but, well. Kansas City and Detroit don’t much like one another.

Just over ten minutes into the first, Simcoe flattens Rossiter. And Jordan does mean flatten. Not a ‘hard check’, not something ‘borderline’, a full out lifting his shoulder to ensure head contact. Rossiter gets up, eventually, but that’s with the help of the trainer, Jordan and Koski, and he doesn’t look good, eyes not tracking the way they should. 

You’d think Simcoe would get something considering Rossiter’s a top two defenseman, but you’d be wrong. Coach Hanson screams his lungs out at the officials, right up until they’re on the edge of getting a bench minor, and Simcoe gets to go back to his bench, off scot free.

So they’re down to four defensemen. That’s great. That’s wonderful. Rossiter’s got a two week old baby and a concussion. Fucking wonderful. His girlfriend’s going to be super pleased.

Jordan’s gassed by the end of the first. He’s played close to eleven minutes, and it’s only going to get worse from here on in, especially if the Scouts keep playing the way they’re playing, piling up the hits at a two to one ratio to the shots on goal.

Jordan wants to go check on Rossiter, but he doesn’t have the time, doesn’t even have his breath back when the intermission’s coming to a close. Doc came into the room, spoke to Hanson, and they both looked grim enough that Jordan didn’t have to be told Rossiter wouldn’t be returning to the game, though they tell him anyway. 

You’d think Simcoe would dial it down after that, but then, you’d be wrong again. If anything he ratchets it up. His whole team does. The Red Wings can’t get anything done because everyone’s got their head on a swivel the second they touch the puck, waiting for the hit that always seems to come. Simcoe catches Koski, thankfully without his head down, but he’s gasping on the bench after that shift, has to sit one out so he can get his air back. It was an elbow to the midsection, and Jordan would be surprised if Koski didn’t have some bruised ribs after that one, because Koski shakes shit off faster than almost anybody else.

It’s like that the whole second. The Scouts get called once and it’s for a fucking bench minor, too many men on the ice. The officiating is an absolute joke, and Jordan’s so angry he can barely see straight, so when Koski and Simcoe are digging for the puck near the boards, Jordan goes in hard. Probably too hard, he’s not going to claim it was a clean check, his temper got the better of him, but Simcoe’s a big guy, and there’s absolutely no way he’d crumple like that.

The whistle blows, the hand goes up, and Jordan can barely breathe he’s so fucking furious.

It’s McGregor that comes over, and honestly, he’s the last guy Jordan would have expected.

“Five minutes for boarding,” McGregor says.

A fucking major. A fucking _major_ , when Simcoe has injured two of Jordan’s guys, is going to take out half the roster, the way he’s going, and Jordan’s the one getting a major. 

“Let’s go,” McGregor says.

Jordan doesn’t move.

“This is fucking horseshit, McGregor,” Jordan snaps, when McGregor takes him by the arm, apparently prepared to skate him to the box himself, “That was an epic dive.”

“Do the crime, pay the time,” McGregor says, like it’s a fucking joke to him. This game is a joke, so Jordan can see why he’d be confused.

“You’re supposed to be better than this,” Jordan says. “Apparently you’ve got your thumb up your ass and your eyes rolled in the back of your head like every other dickweed who wasn’t good enough to get in the NHL.”

“You want extra for abuse of an official?” McGregor asks, still mild. Easy to keep cool if you’ve been taking a nap all game, Jordan guesses. And still he’s pulling that ‘I’m your friend’ bullshit. Two of Jordan’s guys are hurting, they’re down to three D for the next five minutes, and McGregor thinks they can have a friendly conversation.

“Like you have the fucking balls,” Jordan snaps. “You want everyone to like you so bad you’d suck my cock.”

He shouldn’t have said that. The moment it comes out of his mouth he wants it back. Only way out is through, his dad would always say. Jordan was wading through mud, and he just got dragged down into it.

“Ten minute misconduct,” McGregor says, flat, no longer looking even remotely amused. “Get back to your bench.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jordan asks, laughing incredulously. They have four fucking defenseman and McGregor’s going to knock them down one more. He’s handing them a practically guaranteed loss.

“Get back to your bench,” McGregor says. “I want you walking down that tunnel in the next five seconds.”

“Or what?” Jordan asks.

“Ten and a game,” McGregor says. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Jordan goes, head down so he doesn’t have to look at anyone, meet his coach’s eye. He’s tempted to knock all the fucking sticks right over, walking down the tunnel, but furious as he is, he’s not going to be the asshole who makes the staff clean up after him. He punches the wall, hard, but his glove dulls the sensation. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t help either.

The period’s got less than two minutes on the clock when Jordan finally calms down enough that he isn’t seeing red. Jordan doesn’t want to be there when the guys come spilling in, asking him what he did, because he doesn’t have an answer that doesn’t make him sound like an asshole who jeopardized the game because he lost his shit at the ref. Which is fitting, because that’s exactly what he did. 

Some captain he is.

It might be cowardly to duck into the dinky little medical room the Scouts have for the visitors’ team, but it gives him time to think something up, and he genuinely is worried about Rossiter.

“Hey, Keats,” Jordan says, after a quick knock. The room’s dim, Rossiter holding himself like the room’s moving. Probably is. That hit looked like the stuff that would get stars spinning around cartoon characters’ heads. Their doctor gives him a quick look. “I know the drill,” Jordan says. “Just checking on my partner.”

“Jordie,” Rossiter says, frowning. “Period can’t be over yet.” The TV in the corner’s off, so apparently Rossi’s internal clock is still working.

“It’s not,” Jordan says. “Two minutes, give or take.”

“You get a penalty?” Rossiter asks. “Shit, you hurt?”

Jordan shrugs. “Game misconduct.”

“What?” Rossiter says, loud, moving to sit up straight.

“Rossi,” Jordan says, while the doctor says, “Keaton,” sharp.

“Sorry,” Rossiter says. “I’m good. The fuck, Jordie?”

“Got Simcoe in the numbers,” Jordan says. It’s not the full story, and Rossi’s going to know that eventually, but Jordan doesn’t want to rehash stuff endlessly.

“My hero,” Rossi says.

Jordan gives him the finger.

“Three fingers?” Rossi says. “That how many you’re holding up?”

“Okay, smartass,” the doc says, and then gives Jordan a look.

“I’m going,” Jordan says, hands up defensively.

He heads back to his stall, in the end, decides to wait it out.

“The fuck was that, Davies, we only have three fucking guys out there now,” is Hanson’s greeting at the end of the second, pitched just under a shout. It’s no less than Jordan deserves, better than he expected.

“I have no excuse,” Jordan says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Tell that to the three who are going to be fucking dying out there,” Hanson says. “Because I don’t want to hear it. Is Rossiter tracking?”

“He’s not good to play,” Jordan says. “No way. Doc’ll agree.”

I’m going to have to play a goddamn forward,” Hanson says, and then, to the roster trickling in, looking wary, “Who wants to play a new position tonight because Davies is a selfish asshole?”

Jordan doesn’t say a word, because again, he deserves it, and the last thing he needs is to dig himself further. He sits through the rah rah speech — they let in a goal in the final two, so they’re in a two goal hole now. That probably isn’t going to improve with only three D-men, so it’s mostly bullshit. After Hanson’s done Jordan finds each of the three D and Laine, who’s going to be taking the hit because he played D until his mid-teens, presumably switched because he tops out at 5’10 now. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Jordan says. “I’m a shit captain, I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Laine says, though he looks kind of like he wants to throw up. Jordan would feel the same if he suddenly had to play forward. “We got you, Jordie.”

He offers his fist, which Jordan bumps, the same with all the other guys, who are probably mad as hell — Jordan would be — but aren’t showing it.

“We got you,” Sternberg repeats.

“I don’t deserve it, but thanks,” Jordan says. 

*  
Jordan doesn’t know what the policy on this is. Abuse of officials doesn’t get called much, and usually it’s a bench minor if a coach completely loses his shit. Jordan took it one step stupider. That night he goes straight to his room. No one’s planning on going out anyway, since they lost 6-2, and even if they were Jordan doubts he’d be welcome right now. He’s got a bunch of texts he doesn’t want to look at right now, a missed call from Lindsay, which he definitely doesn’t feel up to returning at the moment, another from his parents, which sounds like utter hell to him. Things for tomorrow.

He checks the rule book, first thing. Apparently McGregor has to send an official report to the Commissioner, which is just the cherry on top of a shit sundae. They’re not clear about suspensions when it’s verbal abuse instead of physical — he looked hard — but he’s sure he’s on the hook for one if they want to pursue it, and Jordan wasn’t just using obscene language, he ratcheted it right up to basically calling a ref a cocksucker. The irony is hilarious, but he doubts he’ll be laughing about it any time soon. He has no idea what hockey ops will do with that report, whether they’d shrug and do the equivalent of ‘boys will be boys’ or decide to make an example of him.

They’re fucked if he’s suspended. More fucked. The flu might pass quickly — hopefully — but there’s no way Rossiter’s going to be back right away, so they’d be down at least two defensemen, the _top_ two defensemen, and they’re chasing contention right now. Jordan could not have fucked up worse if he had literally assaulted McGregor.

The next morning there’s no call from hockey ops. Nothing when they land, either. Their GM intercepts him at the airport, takes him aside.

“No supplementary discipline,” he says, so Jordan guesses they talked to _somebody_. He can feel every muscle in his body relax. “You do something that stupid again and I’ll bench you myself, suspension or not. That was shit leadership.”

“I know,” Jordan says. “I won’t. I promise.”

He doesn’t know whether McGregor made the full report or not, whether this was him downplaying it or the league shrugging and going ‘well, it’s just some gay shit, who cares’. He wouldn’t be surprised by the latter — the NHL’s paid lip service since Lapointe came out and started the trickle down, but they sure as shit don’t care if someone’s getting called a faggot, and half the hockey community — fans _and_ players — called Lapointe a crybaby when Lapointe rightfully called the league out on it. Jordan’s generally disgusted with the whole thing, so he doesn’t know how to feel if that’s the reason he got off. 

Whatever the reason is, he doesn’t deserve it, but he guesses that’s beside the point, because that’s what he gets.

**Author's Note:**

> Use of gay slurs and derogatory language by a POV character who self-identifies within that group. Pervasive language. Verbal abuse toward a referee.


End file.
